


Winter Kept us Warm

by CynaraM



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Light Angst, Mostly Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynaraM/pseuds/CynaraM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonie is injured and unconscious, and Cabal finds himself at sea in the awkward role of caregiver.  Could be read as a prelude to my "Friendship is Unnecessary"  series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Kept us Warm

**Author's Note:**

> —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,  
> Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not  
> Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  
> Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  
> Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
> 
> -T. S. Eliot
> 
> I have a soft spot for hurt/comfort fic, and I have been wondering what Cabal would do if he had to keep someone alive, for a change. Forgive the Eliot; it works too well.

Cabal strolled through a dark cemetery. The cemetery was a sprawling one, filled with statues and covered with moss. Names had been erased by weather and obscured by lichen. The full moon glinted off the polished granite of a newer stone, outshining the distant street lighting.

He felt unusually expansive after a successful book purchase from a contact, a quiet day in a library, dinner at an Alsatian restaurant, and a walk around a German-speaking town. He had dropped by the cemetery - not out of any real intention of collecting material, but more in a spirit of general professional inquiry. He took notes as he walked. As he replaced his notebook in the interior of his long black coat, he paused in mid-motion. A thick row of cypresses stood some distance into the cemetery. A dim light had glimmered from among them. 

He had chosen this hour for privacy. The simply bereaved would be kept away by the darkness. The utterly shattered were unlikely to notice a quiet figure. The criminal element would be evaded or dealt with. 

It was tempting to slip away and head back to his hotel, but on the very small chance another necromancer had emerged - and Cabal was no stranger to moonlight cemetery visits himself - it would be better to know now. The cypresses would allow him to retreat unseen. He drew his hat down and gripped his heavy cane farther down its shaft.

The cypress needles prickled his face. A single, shaded candle lit a scene of such unmitigated sensationalism he nearly recoiled in purely aesthetic repugnance. A robed man (Cabal sighed softly) gloated over a coffin-shaped monument, and a low-hanging cowl masked the upper part of his face. Lying on the monument was a young woman, unresisting or unconscious and mostly undressed. A desire to slip back to his pleasant little hotel and review his notes on the fourteenth century manuscript swelled within Cabal.

Possibility number one: this was a consensual, if eccentric, act, and the young woman was either enjoying herself or paid a living wage. Two: this was a garden-variety psychopath with repugnant tendencies which were, strictly speaking, none of Cabal’s business. Possibly someone should alert the constabulary, ideally not someone already wanted in this country for crimes against man and god. Three: this was an occultist making a laughably inept bid for power which was about to result in this woman’s death. Four, and least likely: this was an occultist making a competent and well-researched bid for power which would result in a great deal of death and a renewed public enthusiasm for reopening “cold case” files on necromancers with a view to subsequent hangings. 

What were the odds that the berobed buffoon had a wickedly curved dagger somewhere in his flaps and folds? One. The figure chuckled to himself as he withdrew what looked like a miniature scimitar from the (presumably reinforced) pocket in which it had lain. He flung back the cowl as he raised the dagger to the skies and began a chant in a rasping accent. 

Cabal’s focus became intense. Bending to his work, the figure began a series of precise cuts on the young woman’s arms and legs as he continued to sing. Cabal’s angle precluded his seeing much of the young lady beyond her feet and legs, but the cuts he could see were purposefully made and potentially effective. The magus raised the young woman’s head as he poured something red from a pitcher over her face and body; the candlelight fell on pale lax features surrounded by muddy blond curls. Cabal gripped his cane tightly as the sodden ground beneath him dipped. Wer ist...? It was Leonie Barrow. It was only Miss Barrow. 

As the magus sliced at her skin and dabbled in the blood, drawing figures on her body, Cabal worked his slow way around the row of trees. The extraordinary competence of the magus and his own acquaintance with the victim did require some personal involvement. He supposed. He could see why the ritualist had chosen this spot; it was deep in the cemetery, and the cypress plantings provided fair protection from the town. They also made it easy to walk up behind the involved practitioner and deliver three firm blows with the weighted death’s-head handle of his cane. The blows thudded loudly in the night air, the chant cutting off after the first, and the second and third delivered scientifically, while standing over the prone body. There. The magus would be discovered by the morning landscaping crew, berobed and with a bloody knife. Whether he was dead or alive (and/or crippled and/or in a coma), his actions and lifestyle would receive some scrutiny. The cowl had fallen back, and Cabal inspected the man’s features with the candle. Well, well.

He turned to Miss Barrow, hoping to find her glaring at him for his temerity in coming to her rescue. She was out cold. “Miss Barrow. Miss Barrow... Leonie!” whispered and then spoken in a rising tone of irritation had done nothing. A sternal rub proved she was not pretending unconsciousness. The cuts were superficial, but her respiration was slow and shallow, her pulse sluggish, and her pupils contracted: drugged. The mark on her arm suggested an injection. He looked for her clothing and found it in a pile by the foot of the monument. It had been cut away from her and would be of no practical use. He left the skirt, coat, and stockings for the landscaping crew. She was covered with mud, dripping with wine, shivering and bleeding. She had to be moved.

***

He backed through the double doors of his small hotel, the stained glass panels twinkling in the gaslight. He carried Miss Barrow in front of him, her head on his shoulder in approved romantic style; it looked more chivalrous, he supposed, than slinging her over his back. Under his buttoned coat she wore her shoes, scarf, and her slashed-open blouse, so one could see the collar and cuffs. There was little he could do about her hair, which was soaking into his suit jacket.

It was an old-fashioned wood-paneled lobby, designed to welcome rather than to impress. He had selected the hotel for its proximity to the railroad station as much as anything else, but it was comfortable and quiet. “Herr Professor, do you require any assistance?” said the night manager, rising from behind the desk as if to assist Cabal, then stopping doubtfully as the reek of wine hit him. Cabal had considered acting the part of a jolly young man with his drunken paramour, but in the end could summon up enthusiasm only for a fierce glare. 

“No. My companion is unwell. Would you please have the following items sent up to my room.” The night manager, the owners’ nephew, looked doubtful but wrote down the list and promised to have it sent up as soon as possible, given the hour. Cabal followed the assurance with a carefully calibrated tip; generous, but not implying any illegal or immoral activity on his part. “And send someone up for my coat and jacket. Oh, and one more item."

****

He laid her on the chesterfield in his sitting room. He reached out to open his coat so he could check her cuts, but hesitated. Her state of undress had scarcely seemed to matter in the cemetery; he had, after all, encountered many bodies on stone slabs, and few of them had been clothed. Here it seemed to matter. What if she were to regain consciousness suddenly? 

He set the thought aside and proceeded to work. Five cuts, none of them deep. Assorted arcane symbols written in blood. They would do her no harm, even if they were worryingly apropos. Her unconsciousness was unchanged, as were her vital signs. She still shivered.

He should clean the wounds, bandage her, then bundle her up, and then see what he could do about the drug. Her skin was cold. He looked at her face for the first time since the cemetery. She was still pale. She was wet and streaked with mud and blood, her eyelashes stuck together in rayed points. 

In fact it was disturbing, seeing her disarranged and helpless. Miss Barrow was a self-possessed, self-righteous woman who had faced him down on a number of occasions and threatened him into the bargain. At the time, he would have thought her unconsciousness would be a salutary change. Now, he felt uneasiness and a tension under his ribs. She was limp and filthy. The dirty wisps of her hair made a wet halo on the fabric of the chesterfield. 

Tightening his lips, he stripped her down to her underclothes. He supposed they had fitted the magus’ notion of appropriate sacrifice attire, as they'd been left alone. He wrapped her in a blanket and ran hot water into the ensuite bathtub; a hot bath would serve the therapeutic purpose of warming her quickly. 

Cabal, shirtsleeves rolled up, lowered her into the tub. He washed her clean of the sigils, doing it as impersonally as he could. He left to take the parcel of supplies from the sleepy bellboy, who he also tipped at a rate that fell short of suggesting criminal activity. Finally, he lowered her head to wash her hair. His face set as her golden curls fanned out in the water. He washed out the wine and mud, then rinsed it, combing it gently through his fingers to press out the water. He used the brush starting from the tips of the tangles, smoothing it section by section. A small vertical line appeared between his pale brows. He did not ask himself what he was doing. 

He disinfected and bandaged the cuts reopened by the water and movement. He buttoned her into the nightdress brought by the bellboy; her undergarments would dampen it, but it couldn’t be helped. He put her in the bed and wrapped her in blankets. Stepping back, he looked at her, clean and composed, and felt something irrational unclench. He wondered how he could gauge his own sanity, in the absence of continued observation by other human beings. 

Another sternal rub failed to produce a reaction. If closely monitored, she shouldn’t be in any real danger; her symptoms were generally consistent with an opioid, but there were likely other ingredients. Robe-wearers couldn’t resist tinkering. 

Her metabolism was slow, and her shiver was returning. The hot water was out, or nearly so. He could summon the bellboy for fuel for the fireplace, which would take at least half an hour to arrive, catch, and begin to warm the room. He could ask for a hot water bottle, which would take a similar time to arrive and then warm her for an hour. He could ask for more blankets, which would not do a damned thing until she started to produce more heat. 

Separately cursing himself, her, the situation, and the professor of abnormal psychology of the University of Köln, he removed his black boots and wet shirt and climbed into the bed in his trousers and undershirt. He pulled her back against him and bundled them both in the blankets. 

Although she shivered, she felt warm through the nightgown and his shirt. The soap and moisture from the bath still breathed from her. Under it he could smell her skin and hair, achingly unfamiliar. Slowly, she stilled. His face buried in her cloud of curling hair, Johannes did not sleep. He monitored her strengthening vital signs at regular intervals through the night, sharing his human warmth (ha) and his scant expertise in keeping things alive.

***

Leonie Barrow awoke in a strange bed. It took a moment for her to realize where she must be: her hotel room at the symposium. The sheets smelled of bleach and… another chemical. Did hotels use formaldehyde? Had she overslept? How had she gotten to bed last…. The thought was overwhelmed by nausea. She looked desperately around for a receptacle, finding a basin pushed in front of her as if by the hands of angels. She retched convulsively, coughing, tears streaming from her eyes and nose. When she raised her head, swiping at her streaming eyes, she blinked, speechless. A necromancer of some little infamy was by her bedside in crisp shirtsleeves, looking at her appraisingly and holding a basin.

"That would be the effect of the opioid. How do you feel, Miss Barrow?”

“What are you doing in my hotel room, Mr. Cabal?”

“We are not in your hotel room. As you will observe, we are in my hotel room.” He walked to the ensuite bathroom to dispose of the basin. He brought a glass of water and a damp facecloth. If Cabal was nursemaiding her, something must be terribly amiss with reality as she understood it.

“…so we are. What.... What the hell am I doing here.” She scrubbed her face with the cloth and swallowed some water. 

“Tsk tsk. Blasphemy, Miss Barrow. I am writing up my research notes. You are recovering from being drugged and abducted. I am right in assuming you were not a consenting participant in last night’s festivities?”

Leonie pieced together her previous day through the fog of nausea and confusion. “I was on the third day of the European Criminal Psychology Symposium. I heard the last lecture. Professor Behrens invited me to discuss my thesis with him….”

“And then events are fuzzy? You had a fortunate escape.” And under his mocking, he was… restless? Uneasy. He watched her too closely. He saw her measuring him and turned away. He made a show of walking back to the desk and sitting, but only shuffled his notes. 

Turning her attention to a self-assessment, she found sharp aches on her arms and legs which proved to be bandaged; the nightgown was not hers. Under it - under it was her own underwear, extremely grimy and stained pink in patches. She had been swaddled in blankets, though the room was warm. 

“Mr. Cabal. I would appreciate it if you would give me a full account of my last twelve hours as you know them.” 

His reply was brief, but she gathered that after her drugged drink with Professor Behrens he had injected her, taken her to a cemetery, and used her as a prop in some sort of occult ceremony. At which point Cabal had sprouted from the ground and rescued her. Her expression must have shown her scepticism - she really had no poker face at all - because he deigned to explain himself. Odd, really. 

“…As for my coming across you so serendipitously - as you know, he was in town for the symposium, and a careful man would carry out this kind of ritual away from his home. He had a book to sell, and no doubt he preferred to keep me away from Köln too. In short: you and he were both brought here by the conference; I was brought here by him, and by the excellent library.“

“And you didn’t take me to a doctor?”

“It… would have been an inconvenient conversation. Your condition would have attracted attention.”

“So you brought me here, though I was dosed with god-knows-what.”

“It seemed the best course; you did not require complex care, just a place to ’sleep it off.’" He smiled thinly. "There may be some fuss about Behrens, when they find him. Act confused and say you woke up in a strange place. The cuts will heal within three weeks, and you will throw off the effects of the drug over the next twenty-four hours. Avoid opium derivatives for a while.” This was delivered nearly in a single breath, and though he was doing a doing a decent impression of his usual arrogance, he was talking too much.

“And my clothing? No, just a minute: 'when they find him’?” 

“Your clothing was destroyed. By Behrens. Given the ritual he was using, I do not believe he molested you further. You might wish to have your bags sent around from your own hotel. I believe the staff here will be helpful; they are concerned about the young lady Herr Professor Weismann dragged to his room last night. Stay in this room, if you wish. I am departing.” He rose from his chair almost before these staccato instructions were completed. In a moment he was wearing his suit jacket and tinted lenses.

"You’re leaving this moment?"

“Once you have your bearings I expect you will feel honour-bound to revive your tiresome plan of turning me in to the authorities. I will be leaving town within the next twenty minutes. I will not go directly home. Please do not trouble the officers by sending them after me."

“Would I?” She made it a challenge, but she wasn't sure herself. 

He stopped his preparations to look at her face-on. “You owe me, Miss Barrow. Please hold it in mind. You would be dead if I had not intervened.”

“You wouldn’t acknowledge any obligation if our positions were reversed, Cabal.”

He hoped his smile was sufficiently cynical. “No, I would not. But I think you do. And you know I will use your feeling of obligation if I can." He left.

***

Cabal sat on the train. He leafed absently through close-written pages of notes. He should have tossed Miss Barrow into the arms of a doctor and fled the city immediately. He frowned and rested his head on one gloved fist.

Most of him did what was necessary: researched, wrote, read, acquired materials and information, and stretched his mind after a goal widely considered impossible. He stole, even killed if it couldn't be avoided. But part of him never left the sub-basement and its precious contents. The boy she had known watched her sleep, marking the years and holding memories, keeping a vigil. Remaining, he hoped, ready. 

But those thoughts, those memories, did not belong to his work. A weakness, however platonic, for lively blonde women would be grotesque in Cabal the necromancer. And if the boy found his way out of the sub-basement, did that mean the necromancer might find his way in? He looked very young, sitting white and slumped in the train carriage as it rattled west.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I didn't break character - bent it for a moment, maybe, but I like them too much to want to do real o/c. The curse of the fic writer is that we love what the original author withholds from us (particularly re. Cabal), and it's so hard to withhold it when we're doing the writing ourselves. 
> 
> I liked writing this; I am tempted to do a companion piece with a role reversal, but who knows.
> 
> [Edit: I did, and called it "Revere thy Roof, and to thy Guests be Kind."]


End file.
